Morning Field

Could I write a sonnet sweet,

To match the view afore my feet?

Could I paint a masterpiece -

With oils and brush, this life unleash?

Or draw the crowds to sell the view

Before the dawn and day are through.

What to do and how to say,

Where to go - the quickest way,

Surely such is not my own,

To hold to self, to bring to home,

How was I the one to tread

Lone path, yet then to find instead,

Subtle colours splashed about

That made this sprightly view stand out?

Was I taken, guided blind

To better things than I could find.

This day in time, the heart is healed

With sight of such a morning field.

©Philip Holden

2003

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